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"There is properly no history; only biography." - Ralph Waldo Emerson
Biographies were the Doctor's favorite literary form. It never failed to amaze him all the things humans managed to do with their infinitely finite lives. Their passions, their eccentricities, their moments of genius, condensed into three or four hundred pages - and how much didn't make it in? The Doctor always wondered that, no matter how shameless the biographer. What secrets stayed kept? There was always something, he suspected.
Biographies were what the Doctor went to when he needed to believe there were things worth saving. Like most bibliophiles, he'd amassed a lot more books in his travels than he had time to read, and probably half of them were biographies. That pile diminished considerably in the days following the Titanic, while the TARDIS floated aimlessly in the Vortex. The Doctor sprawled on the sofa in the library and tried to remember why he did what he did.
Biographies. There were exceptions - people would be fascinated by evil; he would bet his screwdriver that history would yield multiple biographies of Harold Saxon before all was said and done - but mostly biographies were humanity at its best.
He never read the endings, though. Highly predictable, those.
The subject of the current biography: Countess Cordelia Naismith Vorkosigan. Or Captain Cordelia Naismith Vorkosigan, depending on who you asked. He'd picked this one up in the late 34th century while waiting for Martha to finish up her shopping. She'd shown up in one of those backless sarongs favored by that particular planet and almost given him a hearts attack; he'd only been thankful the topless variety was not in fashion at the moment. They'd gone trekking in the desert shortly thereafter, and the book - well, book disc, rather, considering how rare plant material was on Beta - had lain forgotten at the bottom of one of his pockets for a couple weeks.
The countess was a prime example of why the Doctor loved biography. She'd had just about a hundred and twenty years allotted to her when all was said a done: quite a long time for a human, but nothing in the grand scheme of things. But the things she'd been! A brilliant scientist, if not quite one of the greats. A soldier, as well; that career had been officially short-lived, but the Doctor knew enough about post-Time of Isolation Barrayar to know it'd lasted considerably longer than the war she'd fought in. Wife to one great Barrayaran man, mother to another, and yet overshadowed by neither, if her overly reverent biographer was to be believed. The first line was a quotation from the countess herself, an axiom she followed throughout her long and eventful life: "Anything worth doing is worth doing well."
An uncommonly clever woman - and the Doctor did so like clever humans with something going on in their heads.
Perhaps, he thought, shoving himself up on his elbow, he'd go and see her. Meet the countess. See Barrayar - it was a bit backward in her day, but every planet went through those growing pains. He flicked idly through the remaining slides of the book disc, wondering when the best time to show up would be. At the height of her husband's Regency? After things had settled down a bit? He thought he might quite like to meet her son, Miles. Happily, the Doctor had never had to choose anything so mundane as a career, but if he'd had to, "Imperial Auditor" might not be so bad. A bit similar to what he did already, really. Lots of running.
A phrase in the book disc caught his eye, forcing him to slow down: Chapter Twenty-One, The Countess's Missing Years.
"It's been pointed out to me recently that someday, someone might write my biography - hopefully after I'm no longer in a position to object. If so, they'll no doubt wish to know how I spent the last two years. In this, though in little else, I'm going to borrow a leaf from a close friend's book and be enigmatic: I've been traveling."
- the personal diary of Cordelia Naismith Vorkosigan, winter 3147
The Doctor blinked, the small, bare seed of an idea shooting off its first roots in the back of his mind. He sank back into the sofa and flicked to the next slide.
Aral Vorkosigan died in the fall of 3145. For several months afterward, Cordelia drifted without anchor. Sources from this period are scarce. Her own diary comes an abrupt halt shortly before her husband's death and only resumes two years later. There is speculation about a separate diary from this time, but it has never been found. The sources that remain extant indicate that her loved ones naturally worried about her in the wake of her husband's death. Emperor Gregor's personal diary recounts his worry for her, as well as his concern that she might leave Barrayar to return to Beta Colony:
"I cannot pretend that Barrayar has become her home. But she has served as mother and moral compass for me for the better part of my life. I don't know who she'll be without Aral; I can't imagine that she knows either. But neither can I imagine what Barrayar - or I - would be without her."
The countess's daughter-in-law was similarly concerned: "Cordelia and I sat in the garden last night for nearly two hours, without speaking. I haven't seen her weep since the funeral. I know better than most that these things come and go, but I can't guess at what she's thinking and that bothers me. We've always been so close before. And it frightens Miles, I think. He's worried she'll leave us and he'll lose both his parents in one fell swoop."
These diary entries, Cordelia's uncharacteristic silence, the single enigmatic entry hinting at "traveling": all have spawned a great deal of scholarly speculation. Matters would be less troublesome if she had said where she had gone, or if her claim to have been "traveling" was corroborated by either domestic or off-planet records. But she doesn't and it isn't. Thus, any biographer must at some point confront the frustrating reality of Cordelia Vorkosigan's two missing years . . .
The Doctor lowered his hand reader and stared at the far wall, his mind racing. Two missing years, the truth of which had gone with the countess to her grave. Gone "traveling." His own urge to plant the TARDIS down in Vorbarr Sultana and meet her - the first such urge he'd had since the Titanic. An enigmatic and unnamed "close friend."
He hadn't intended to take her with him, but, well - it seemed he already had.
"Wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey," he said to himself with a grin before springing off the sofa. "Allons-y!"
***
The Doctor liked to pretend he chose his companions. He knew he was pretending, of course - the truth was that his companions chose him. Or maybe there was mutual choosing, through a vetting process that involved a great deal of running and near-death experiences on both sides. But in the end, his companions chose him. Or didn't, as the case may be.
Regardless, it had been a very long time since the Doctor had chosen a companion before the companion chose him. It wasn't often that he had to go courting. But that was exactly what he intended when he stepped out of the TARDIS into the chilly, early morning air of wintery Vorbarr Sultana. He checked his pockets for his screwdriver and the stethescope and set off, snow crunching quietly under his trainers.
He wondered, as he swung down a riverside path, what would work best with the countess. Should he pour on the charm or play the enigmatic alien? Act human at first or just cut straight to I-have-two-hearts? Pretend to be harmless or entice her with danger?
Jack would've probably known. The Doctor found himself a little bewildered.
The morning was gray. The river was gray. Even the buildings were gray. The Doctor was wishing he'd worn his blue suit, just for a splash of color, when he caught a flash of coppery red on the path up ahead. Ginger was not a common genetic variant on Barrayar. Sometimes the TARDIS knew even better than he did. He reminded himself to be gentle next time he had to take a mallet to the console and quickened his step.
She was sitting on a bench, watching the river, just about twenty yards away. He'd thought he'd have a little more time to plan his attack, but maybe it was for the best that he hadn't. So far his plans had consisted of walking up to her front door - which, come to think of it, was likely very well-guarded - and making up as barmy a story as necessary to get his foot in. Much better to cross her path now, when there wasn't anyone around to toss him out on his highly suspicious arse. Or, this being Barrayar, shoot him in the head.
It was some comfort to know he'd already convinced her, somewhere and somewhen, but that didn't mean he couldn't bugger it all to hell if he wasn't careful. For a scant few seconds, that made him hesitate - and then he shook himself. To hell with careful. "Good morning!" he called.
She turned to look at him. A good face - not remarkable, not even beautiful, but striking. Lively eyes. Older. Some would even say old, though the Doctor knew differently. She wasn't even a tenth his age. But her face was lined as few of his companions' had been: at the corners of her eyes and mouth, on her forehead. Lines from smiling, mostly, though the Doctor knew her life had not been without hardship. Lines even the Doctor would have eventually, if this incarnation lasted that long. Wrinkles! It'd been ages since he last had them.
"Good morning," she returned neutrally.
"Bit chilly to be out so early, isn't it?" he said, taking a seat on the opposite end of her bench. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "'Course," he went on, "at least it's quiet. Always liked a nice quiet ramble, me. Well, no, not really. I'm more into the run-for-your-life ramble. Gets your heart-rate up. Nothing works the cardiovascular system like an old fashioned fight-or-flight response, eh?"
She pursed her lips. "Did anyone ever tell you not to talk to strangers?"
The Doctor ruffled the back of his hair. He was privately encouraged that she hadn't run away yet. "No, can't say as they did. Anyway, that'd be quite dull, wouldn't it? Strangers are the best people to talk to. Or at least the most interesting. You, for instance."
Her eyebrows shot up. Oh, he had her attention now. He hadn't at first. She'd been watching the water and thinking of something else. Someone else. The date on the TARDIS chronometer was less than two months after her husband's death. "What about me?"
"What about you? You're Countess Cordelia Naismith Vorkosigan." He popped all the consonants, rolled her name out on his tongue leisurely. "You see, I know who you are, but not really. I'm guessing, in fact, that right now you don't even know who you are."
She arched an eyebrow at him and he had to quash a grin. "All right, then. Who are you?"
"I'm the Doctor." He slid closer on the bench. "Cordelia. I think we should begin as we mean to go on."
The second eyebrow arched up to join the first. "What do you mean, go on?"
"Only way to start something like this," the Doctor sailed on, ignoring this. "You see, I'm an alien. Time Lord, actually, and I have a TARDIS, that's my ship, and I go traveling through time and space and have amazing, wonderful, terrible adventures. I read a book about you and I think you're frankly marvelous and was wondering if you'd like to come with me." He grinned at her, bouncing a little.
She stared at him. "You're mad. Or I am."
"You're not," he said decisively. "Grief feels that way sometimes, I know, but you're not. I . . . might be. Sometimes. Hard to say. But that doesn't make any of it less true."
"You're an alien."
"Yep. Two hearts and everything."
She sat back. "It's just that you look awfully human, and most of the aliens I've met . . . don't."
"Well, you've met - what, the Cetas? Very flash, the Cetas. But the two arms, two legs, bipedal model is quite popular. Useful. Gets the job done. The particulars are a bit different, but aren't they always. Here." He pulled the stethescope from his dimensionally transcendent left pocket and let it dangle from his thumb.
She accepted it, but to his surprise, she simply let it lie in her lap while she studied him. "That's all right," she said at last, handing it back to him. He frowned, but she waved her hand. "No, it's just - I believe you."
He blinked. Scientific mind like hers, he'd fully expected to have to prove himself. "Really?"
She frowned thoughtfully. "I don't know if this is quite the right way to put it, but you don't feel human to me. I wouldn't have noticed if you hadn't told me - I might have just thought you a bit strange - but there you have it."
The Doctor felt his eyebrows go shooting up. "Interesting! I'd assumed you were just highly empathetic, but perhaps there's actually some low-level psychic ability at work - no training at all, of course, not here. Fascinating. I'd ask to check but it seems a bit forward for our first conversation, and the last time I tried something like that before I'd got to know the woman I ended up getting slapped for it. Are you the slapping type?"
"Not really."
"Splendid." He grinned. "You really are remarkable. Brilliant, even. You do know that, don't you?"
She smiled faintly. "You read about book about me, you said? I don't think there are any."
"Yet."
Her lips parted briefly, and she huffed out a quiet laugh. "I see."
"Quite."
"And you have a ship? A TARDIS, you called it?"
"Yup. Time and Relative Dimensions in Space. Ready and waiting."
"For what?"
"For you." This was it, the Doctor sensed. This was the moment. He carefully folded the stethescope away in his pocket. Then he stood and extended his hand to her. "Cordelia Naismith Vorkosigan. How would you like to run for your life?"
He watched her eyes and saw the moment she chose to believe in what he was offering her. A world - a universe - of possibilities blossomed in her mind. He saw it in the slight widening of her eyes, in the straightening of her back, in the two spots of color that appeared on her cheeks. Her life had become mundane, small. And, since Aral's death, sad. What he offered her was no less than what Rose had offered him, the Doctor realized with an almost unpleasant jolt: a way on.
He hoped he was ready to be that for her. And that she was ready to be that for him, because he certainly needed it after the horrors of the last year and the kick in the kidneys that was his brief stint on the ill-fated Titanic. Perhaps it would work better when it wasn't so one-sided. She would be the oldest human companion he'd ever taken; she was a mother, a widow, a scientist, a former soldier, a grown woman with her own wisdom and no illusions. He held his breath, awaiting her answer.
She smiled suddenly, brilliantly. "I think I would, Doctor. I think I would."
***
A companion's first glimpse of the TARDIS was always a telling moment. Did they scream and babble about how it was bigger on the inside? Did they pretend to be unimpressed? Did they go mad and run straight out the door, forcing the Doctor to chase them down the street? His companions had run the gamut. Though the Doctor knew it wasn't exactly fair, he judged them on it.
In all his nine hundred years, he'd never had a companion stand in the threshold with her arms crossed and a small, pleased smile on her lips. Cordelia said nothing for nearly a minute, just stood there drinking it in while the Doctor fidgeted around the console and waited for her to say something - anything. "Well?" he said at last, rocking back on his heels.
"She's beautiful," she said, confirming the Doctor's suspicions of low-level psychic ability. "She travels in time, you said?"
"And space," he said. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. He was almost disappointed by how not-thrown she seemed. Was a small gasp of surprise so much to ask for? Though he realized, watching her run her hand along a wall and stare up at the time rotor, a kaleidescope of expressions chasing themselves across her face, she wasn't unimpressed. Merely unsurprised.
He was just about to ask her again where she wanted to go when she turned to him. Something in her eyes made him briefly afraid that she'd ask for something impossible - to cross her own timeline and see her husband as a young man, or go back to her wedding day and watch their vows. A recipe for Reapers, that would be. He was relieved when she said, "I'd like to go somewhere beautiful. Extraordinary."
"You might want to give me a bit more than that," the Doctor said, leaning against the console. "Almost every planet has somewhere beautiful at some point in its history. There are a few exceptions, but I'd hardly take you there anyway. Well," he amended conscientiously, "not without good reason and a lot of forewarning."
She nodded, still watching him. "When I was a Betan Survey Captain, I jumped through wormholes blind - but I guess you know that. I miss being the first to see something glorious."
"Something glorious no human has ever seen," the Doctor repeated with a grin. "That narrows it down a bit. Let's see - ah! That's it. Hold on, Cordelia Naismith Vorkosigan. Allons-y!" He yanked the lever to start the dematerialization sequence, leapt around her to push a number of vital buttons, then grabbed the mallet and gave the TARDIS a good thwap across the temporal compression belt. The floor shook, tossing the Doctor into the console. Cordelia's eyes were wide, but not with fear and not with awe, but with a strange sort of recognition. Fond recognition. As though he reminded her of someone. He wondered if any of his future selves had run into her in her past. He wouldn't put it past himself, even if he should know better.
The TARDIS gave one last almighty wriggle and settled. The Doctor felt it spinning slowly, rotating on its axis. Cordelia, still holding tight to a support beam, slowly let go. "That was . . ." She hesitated breathlessly before finishing, "Invigorating."
"I've always thought so," he said, and without further ado flung open the TARDIS doors.
Her gasp was audible. He tried not to grin too broadly and failed. If she wasn't easily impressed, he'd just have to try a little harder. "I did ask for glorious," she said at last, faintly.
"It's a sun, exploding," he said, unnecessarily.
"So I see. We're not in any danger?"
He leaned against the threshold and watched her watching it. "Would it bother you if we were?"
She shook her head.
"Didn't think so." He shrugged. "We're not. The TARDIS is protecting us and we're further away than it seems."
"Where - no, when are we?"
He ruffled the back of his hair. "About a million years ago, give or take a couple thousand."
She stared out, the eerie, white-blue light of the supernova illuminating her face. "Everything ends," she murmured.
He let out a long breath. "That it does."
She glanced at him sideways. "How old are you?"
He frowned. "Bit rude, isn't it?" She gave him a look. He smiled ruefully. "Nine hundred. Again, give or take."
"Mmm." She turned, kicking at her skirts, and went to sit on the step by the console. He couldn't tell if she was watching him or the supernova, but after a few seconds she said, "Well, Doctor, I have to admit that this is unexpected."
He shrugged modestly and went to sit beside her. "I aim to please."
"I didn't really think I'd say that again. When I first got to Barrayar . . . well, you know how it is, I'm sure, when you first get to a new place. Everything is strange. Some things are very strange, and others are just strange enough to remind you that really, you're what's strange. But I got used to it. Not Barrayar, but being . . . alien. Aral made it bearable. And now he's gone. Everything else is the same, but he's gone."
The Doctor thought of Rose. And then, in spite of himself, he thought of the Master, and a year that never was. He swallowed and looked away. "I know a bit about that," he admitted.
She nodded. "I thought you might. You were right before, you know. When you said I didn't know who I was. I don't. Not without him."
"I know a bit about that, too," he said, thinking of hours spent wandering the TARDIS wardrobe in a pair of borrowed men's pajamas and a too-large dressing gown. "You'll figure it out."
"Eventually." She drew a deep breath. "Well. In any case . . . thank you."
He turned to eye her, one eyebrow lifted. "There's a lot more where this came from. I mean, we haven't even run for our lives yet. There're so many places out there I've never taken anyone - places I've never even been!" He leapt to his feet and gestured expansively. "Nine hundred years and I've hardly grazed the surface. Imagine it, Cordelia!"
"Oh, I am." She shook her head. "I have children. And grandchildren . . ."
He plunked himself down next to her again. "Time machine. Cordelia, you're brilliant. Don't be thick."
She laughed. "Do you do this often? Find historical figures - God, but it's strange to think of one's self as a historical figure, I think I'll avoid it from now on - and ask them to come traveling."
"No," he said. "Never. I always seem to, er, stumble over my companions."
She quirked her eyebrow at him. He was starting to love that little gesture. He bet the two of them could have a whole conversation using only their eyebrows if they were so inclined. He hoped he'd have the chance to find out. "Like finding a stray cat versus picking one out at a shelter?"
He felt his jaw drop. "That's - that's -"
"Don't sputter, you know it's true. I've known you half an hour and I know it's true."
For the first time, the Doctor realized there might actually be some danger involved in this for him. She was the sort who'd look inside his head and tell him what he was thinking, and the Doctor didn't know if he was ready for that. But it seemed a little late to back out now, and anyway, he didn't want to. If she was a stray cat, then she was just the sort of stray cat he needed. And strangely, she seemed to need him, and not in the usual way.
It was time to get moving again, he judged. When in doubt, jump about maniacally. Don't give them time to doubt. One more glorious sight no one else had ever seen and he'd have her. He sprang to his feet and slammed the TARDIS doors shut. "And off we go! Next stop: the subtropical planet of New Oasis. Of course it's not called that when we're going to see it, it's not called anything yet, but eventually, about a thousand years from your own time, that's what it'll be called. Lovely banana groves. Shame to miss them, really. You like bananas?"
"I think I've only ever had them once. Barrayar doesn't have much in the way of subtropical climates. They force them in hothouses on Beta, but they're very expensive."
"One banana! Seventy years and one banana! That won't do. First things first!" He yanked the lever to start the dematerialization sequence. He didn't bother to suppress his grin when Cordelia yelped and leapt for a support beam.
***
The Doctor wriggled his toes in the finest fine white sand he'd ever had the pleasure to wriggle his toes in and watched the pink northern sea of New Oasis lap lazily at the shoreline. They'd landed while it was still dark, with just the faintest emerald glow on the horizon hinting at sun rise. They'd stood together and watched as the planet's sun rose slowly, turning the sky brilliant hues of green and gold. The Doctor had reached out and grasped Cordelia's hand; he'd felt her hesitate, but only briefly, and then her fingers had closed on his.
She'd wandered off after that, half-eaten banana in hand. He wasn't worried. New Oasis had a number of harmless carbon-based life forms. He was fairly certain Cordelia would be charmed by any of them. And that they would be equally charmed.
He was right. When she finally returned, the sun had climbed halfway up into the green-gold sky and she was covered in slime. With either Rose or Martha, that amount of gooey anything would have necessitated an immediate trip into the TARDIS for a bath and a change of clothes, but Cordelia laughed and wiped her beslimed hands on her equally beslimed dress. "There were these creatures, hexapeds. Astonishingly tame. One of them came out and took my banana right out of my hand."
"How rude of it," the Doctor said, producing a second banana for both of them from his coat pocket. He peeled his and took an enormous bite. He wriggled his toes again and reflected that this was the happiest he'd been in a long time. He could almost forget the Titanic and the Valiant, and everything that came before. Almost.
One good year, he thought bitterly. Just one. A good month, even. It was so hard to keep moving when he went from one calamity to the next, an endless string of epic-scale disasters and smaller, more personal losses that hurt just as much. Even now, sitting here in the sun of a beautiful planet, he felt the dull ache of the empty space in his head where his people should be - where, for a year, the Master had been. Being alien everywhere he went had been so much easier to bear when he wasn't the only one. When he'd known there was a place he could go, even if he avoided it as a matter of course.
"You're brooding," Cordelia said suddenly.
The Doctor startled, then glared and took a large, pointed bite of banana. "I am not!" he managed. "I'm eating a banana. Can't brood and eat a banana, can't be done."
"Well, you're doing it."
He swallowed. "And you're not eating your banana. Don't tell me you don't like it."
Cordelia frowned. "It tastes fine. I'm just not sure of the texture."
"Ah, well, that's the thing about bananas," the Doctor informed her, nodding wisely. "S'not just finding out if you like them or not, you have to find out how you like them. Some people like them green and hard, though I've never seen the appeal, and some don't like them green but won't touch them if they have any brown spots, and some people only like them with lots of brown spots, and I had one companion who liked them mushy, but I think after a certain point all you can do is toss them down the TARDIS and hope she comes up with a decent banana bread."
Cordelia had raised her eyebrows at him again. "Is there anything you can't give a full-length university lecture about?"
"If there is, it isn't worth the words. Or the time."
She snorted. "I don't doubt it. Just like I don't doubt that you were brooding just now."
He thought about arguing, then decided it was unworthy of them both. He shrugged and looked away. "It tends to happen when I slow down."
She nodded. "My son's that way. Actually . . ."
"What?"
"Nothing. You just remind me of him." And then, to his astonishment, she reached over and brushed a lock of hair out of his face.
His first reaction, which he only just managed to control, was to lean away in indignation. Time Lords most certainly did not need to be mothered, especially by humans who were, all right, quite old by human standards, but still less than one tenth the age of the aforementioned Time Lord. His second reaction was mortification; was he so harmless and fluffy looking in this incarnation that companions felt they could take all sorts of liberties? And not just liberties but practically pat him on the head?
His third was of profound relief. If she thought of him as a son, the chances of her falling in love with him were slim to none. Thank Rassillon. And . . . it had been a long time since anyone had thought of him that way. He doubted his own mother ever had, at least not the way humans would understand it, and his earlier incarnations hadn't inspired much maternal feeling in anyone.
Her dimples were showing. She knew she'd thrown him off balance - probably done it on purpose, in fact. He frowned repressively, tossing a hint of Oncoming Storm into it for good measure. Her dimples only deepened. That wasn't supposed to happen.
Oh, but he liked this woman.
He cleared his throat. "What do you say, then?"
She said nothing at first. She looked out at the pink sea, then up at the green and gold sky. She looked at him, then behind him at the TARDIS, nestled between two sand dunes, blindingly white in the morning sun. She smiled. "Yes. All in all, I think it's exactly what . . . I need."
"You were about to say 'what the doctor ordered', weren't you?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Ah well." The Doctor climbed to his feet and held his hand out to her, much as he had on the banks of the river in Vorbarr Sultana, only a few hours earlier. "Shan't hold that against you. Where to now? Shall we run for our lives?"
"Actually," she said, accepting his hand up, "I'd like to go home."
The Doctor let out an explosive sigh. "Already?"
"I have children, Doctor, and grandchildren, and I want to pick up a few things." She crossed her arms over her chest. "I've said I'd come with you, but I want to go home first."
"It's a time machine."
Cordelia put her hands on her hips and stared him down. "And if I'm killed? Will your time machine help then? Can you go back and fix it?"
"Ah, well . . ."
"I thought not." Cordelia shook her head, her jaw set decisively. "I won't just leave them. It's cruel. Take me home first."
"Well." The Doctor looked down at his toes, sunk into the sand. "All right. Home first. And then -" He threw his arms wide. "The whole of time and space!"
Laughing, she trailed him into the TARDIS.
***
A scant two hours later, they spun lazily through the Vortex once more. Cordelia had disappeared into the wardrobe, wristcom in one hand and holocube in the other, her eyes mostly dry, and the Doctor found himself back in the library. Next stop was twenty-first century Earth and Martha, but he had something he had to do first.
It wouldn't do to leave the biography of one's companion lying about for her to find. He thought she had the mental fortitude to resist reading it, but there was no reason to tempt her. He picked up the hand reader, flicking through the slides. Cordelia Naismith Vorkosigan was an accomplished woman.
The Doctor smiled and shelved the book disc in the back, behind the complete works of Patrick O'Brian. Just now, she was a little lost and bewildered, not entirely comfortable in her own skin. Unsure of who and what she was.
He looked forward to watching her find out.
Fin.